Atlantisby Pat Black

Genre:DramaSwearwords: A lot of strong ones.Description:Tam and Stu are having a wee soiree on the banks of a festering canal at the start of the school holidays. They're having a night on the tiles before they start their summer jobs – but first, a trip to the fabled underwater city of Atlantis...

​​It was a canal in the sense that there was water, weeds and algae, oozing around a wire-fenced industrial sepulchre on the edge of town. There might even have been fish cavorting among the slime; however, there wasn’t much life apparent – not in the towering plant, boarded up, enmeshed and tiresome even for the vandals, and not in the water itself. You might see the occasional worm squirming along the mucky banks, off-yellow weeds nodding off on the guttering, or the odd dog nosing around the rusted cans. But tonight, if you were looking, you’d see Tam and Stu.

Stu drained his fourth can of Big T, crushed it with studied insouciance and hurled it into the water. Tam, who stood at the edge on the bank, where the water had receded far enough to uncover slippery rocks, peed the dark green depths into foam.

“A can won’t pollute it as much as yer pish,” Stu replied. He reached into the plastic bag for another. They had six each; four had gone down easily. Stu had guzzled his quicker than Tam.

“Aye, that was the joke,” Tam said, shoogling off and zipping up. “That was the irony.”

“The irony. Thanks very much, Shakespeare. Thank goodness you’re here, tae steer me through life. Would you care for a small aperitif? Might stop you talking for 10 minutes.” Stu held out a can.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

This shady part of the waterway, which eventually emptied out into vast, frigid sea lochs many leagues away, was Tam and Stu’s favourite spot to drink. Both fifteen, they had recently moved schools owing to a vital funding decision made by the council which had closed down their place of study, after their Standard Grades. The first few weeks of assimilation into their new school in the next town had gone well, or as well as could be expected, both sets of youngsters making wary social progress.

But now it was Friday night, and money from the job at Davie O’Neill’s supermarket, where the pair used multipacks of cheesy puffs as sofas and jousted with trolleys hard enough to strike sparks, had to be spent somewhere.

“Did you phone Andy?” Tam asked, staring into the black eyelet of his can for any remaining suds. “I didn’t see him at school today.”

“Your bum chum? I did not. Thought you’d phoned him.”

“I did, yesterday. His ma said he was busy or something. Thought he’d fancy a game of fitba up at the reccie this Tuesday, as well. But she say… nay.”

“Busy? Busy doing what?”

“Studying or something. Starting work on his Highers.”

“His royal highersness,” Stu sneered. “I told you, man. He’s a poof.”

Tam considered this. “Yep. Total poof.”

“How could he be studying? Exams are finished, man. It’s the holidays in a week.”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s got a lumber.” Tam allowed the last of the foam to escape into the mud, then dropped his empty can back into the bag.

Tam reached into the bag. “What do you reckon to that Sarah McKinlay then?”

“Torpedo tits? No’ bad. That the bird you were talking to after the badminton?”

“Yeah. She’s going to ice skating apparently.”

Stu’s eyes snapped up. “You going to the ice skating?”

Tam stood up, his last can clutched in his hands. “Course not.”

“Good.” Stu sucked in his can. “Ice skating? As an elective? You joking?”

“Lot of birds going.” Tam shrugged. “Och well.”

“We need you for the fitba team, man. Show these Lynnbank tossers how the game is played.”

“Sure.”

“Ice skating? You’re on thin ice there, Tam m’boy.”

Tam cracked open his last can, frowning. “Anyway. It appears Andy is unavailable for selection.”

“Fuck it. Want to chase these and go into Lynnbank?”

“Why not?”

Stu’s attention was diverted towards the pathway around the canal. He crouched, suddenly. “Christ. Is that the polis?”

Tam hid the can behind his back in a well-oiled move, remaining upright and casual. His eyes narrowed, and he focused on a line of figures that approached. “Don’t think so. It’s… a bunch of cunts.”

Stu scarcely grew more relaxed. Through the rude scrub and bramble that overhung the path as it snaked along beside the canal, half a dozen heads appeared. Their noise reached the two boys in aggregate, a cacophony. They were older lads, though not by much, and better-dressed. They passed around a bottle between them, and the dust from the path rose in a restless haze, clinging to their legs.

“Bolter?” Stu asked. Tam shrugged, suckling at his can while the crowd passed them by. They both cut sorry figures next to the smart shirts and slick shoes of the newcomers, shabby in pale blue jeans and tattered denim jackets just a shade darker. From the newcomers, one ginger-haired boy in a nuclear shockwave white shirt approached them. Although both boys had been drinking, they could tell that this lad was in a worse state than them, livid acne scars foregrounding yellowed eyes and a milky pallor.

Stu took two steps back, slowly.

“Geez some o’ yer can, mate,” the ginger haired lad said, jaw muscles bunching. He held out a hand.

“But this is my last can in the world,” Tam said, unflinching. “My maw gave this to me for my birthday.”

“Fuck yer maw. Geez some a’ yer fuckin’ can.” The last two words were bellowed; Tam saw two birds flew off from a tree overhanging the wire fence by the side of the old factory, safe and secure across the water.

“Of course. I’d help a friend in need.” Tam proferred the can. The ginger boy took it. Sometime after the act of raising it to his pursed lips, the lad realised there was nothing left. By the time the boy thought to hurl the can at them, Tam had set off at pace down the canal bank. He was surprised to note Stu had a good thirty yards on him.

The well-dressed young men gave chase, but not too far, and not too fast. Stu and Tam screeched laughter as they slowed down, the canal bank giving way to Lynnbank town centre.

They stalked the shopping centre with the sun still high, not quite midsummer yet. Beyond the car park, where the bright lights of the cinema and the bowling alley gleamed like the jewels of Araby, there was a strange interzone where middle class families with children, dolled-up couples on dates and straggling teens mixed. The fine weather and the slow-setting sun had brought people out, and the place was abuzz with traffic, giggles, shouts, car alarms and the odd scream. Alongside the low-rolling canal that cut the shopping precinct in two, benches lay shielded by evergreen privet on top of bricked alcoves, seemingly bespoke designs with the motive of concealing teenage drinkers. Swaying somewhat with the booze, and keeping a sharp eye out for the well-dressed young men, Stu and Tam were pondering their next move when two girls came into view.

“Hey!” Stu cried. “It’s June and Lorraine!”

The two girls bridled, the shock of recognition giving way to pinched expressions of disgust.

Tam strode over splay-legged, in parody of Albert Steptoe. “Hey up, girls! And may I say you’re looking splendid tonight?”

“You may, if you like.” Lorraine, the taller of the two, tossed her permed hair aside and walked on with her arms folded. The other girl smiled weakly.

“We saw Andy and Brian,” June said. “They were up at the train station.”

“Eh?” Stu lurched off his bench. “What train station’s this?”

“Dowanglen. Up the road.” June pointed towards the rail sign visible just over the B&Q sign. “I think they were on a night out with some new friends.”

Lorraine smiled thinly. “What a shame they haven’t invited you.”

Tam frowned. “He didn’t say anything to us about that.”

Stu rubbed his hands together. “Well, never mind them. Bunch of lame ducks, anyway, the lot o’ them. You’re well dolled up, and we’re beautiful. Fancy coming with us to split a couple of cans?”

Tam was about to protest when another person was among them. Neither Tam nor Stu were sure how he had gotten there – perhaps he had materialised, like something out of science fiction, or perhaps he had always been there, camouflaged against the dull maroon brickwork. He had froggie eyes, Tam decided, even as they locked with his.

“Whit did youse two diddies say, there?”

Tam glanced at Stu, who had taken two or three steps back. “Is it warmers’ night, or something?”

Stu said nothing as another boy strode in among them. “Who do you think yese are, hassling they two lassies? Youse two lookin’ for a burst jaw?”

“Not especially,” Tam said, yawning.

The two girls returned, alarmed. “It’s alright,” Lorraine said to the froggie-eyed boy, almost completely transformed from the hauteur of a moment before. “We know them.”

“Look, it’s fine,” June said. “They’re daft, we’re pals. They meant no harm. We’re pals, honestly.” She was on the verge of tears, her hands touching the frog-eyed boy’s forearm. He turned and glanced at her, slowly, chest rising and falling with ever-deepening breaths.

“You have a lovely evening,” Tam said, backing away slowly. He turned to Lorraine and June, and framed his face with his hands. “Here’s what you could have won.”

Tam rejoined Stu, who was behind the brick wall and walking towards the car park, hands in his pockets. Stu said: “You’ve got to watch, there. That’s two doin’s we’ve just missed out on, pardner.”

“They weren’t baddies, mate. Baddies don’t wait for an invite. They were just chancers.” Still, the adrenaline had come, after the confrontation. Tam forced his fists into his denim jacket pockets, the better to stop them shaking. His fingers found a crumpled bus ticket in the lining, and they worried it for a few moments while he dealt with the shame of retreat, and also something a little deeper.

“Well then, repartee it is,” Stu said, nose and chin held high, doffing an imaginary hat. “Shall we repair to the train station to see what dearest Andrew is up to?”

“We shall, we shall.”

The shock on Andy’s face as he spied Tam and Stu approaching the train station shelter was similar to that of Lorraine and June’s. He was dressed in a fashionably unkempt tartan shirt, his Doc Marten boots slick and shiny and his hair stiffened into spikes with gel. Brian Dalmilling, a lad who had come across to the new school with them who Andy had only recently got pally with, had his hair slicked straight back in a style reminiscent of a 1930s fopp. Stu attempted to run his hands through the pallid secretions holding his hair in place, but the boy shrugged him off.

Stu attempted to slick his own hair back with residue from Brian’s gel, without success. “Ice skating? Ahh, you two guys! What’s the meaning of all this, then? Are you going to make your announcement public?”

“Not with each other,” Brian said, with a hint of amusement. Andy shot him a look.

“And not inviting us, either,” Tam said. “You embarrassed by us or something?”

“You weren’t embarrassed by us the other week, efter yer exams,” Stu said, suddenly serious. He stood beside Tam, and Andy seemed to shrink away. “Quite happy to head down the canal and have some beers then, weren’t ye?”

The rail lines quivered and wailed as the train approached. In the late evening sun, the rust colouring of the metal achieved something like grandeur.

Brian waved and said: “You have a good night, now, boys, eh?”

Andy joined him as the train pulled in. “Save us a couple of cans for later, eh?”

They scanned the slowing carriages, before the excited faces of five or six girls trailed past. Andy and Brian chased down this carriage, and jumped on. The girls were familiar, but took a little time to place; like Lorraine and June earlier, they looked different out of the flannel skirts, white blouses and tied-back hair of schooltime; now it was lipstick and eyeshadow, long legs tapered off in clinging jeans, and one girl sporting what looked like hotpants. They greeted Andy and Brian with hugs and squeals. One of them glanced back at Stu and Tam back on the platform with mock horror, and hid her face. The doors to the carriage were still open.

“Here,” Stu said, “that’s Sarah McKinley.”

“Ah know,” Tam said grimly.

Stu brightened. “Want to get on? Fuck up their night?”

The train doors beeped, and slid closed. “Don’t be daft,” Tam said.

The train pulled away with a rising hum of electricity, the delighted faces and ironic waves shunted away into the tunnel. Tam and Stu were alone.

“I thought you’d asked her oot?” Stu said.

“She never got back to me,” Tam replied. For an absurd moment, he thought he might cry. He cleared his throat. “Fuck it – more drink?”

“Oh, totally, mate. What a pair of snidey bastards though, eh?”

“Totally.”

“Ice skating! The pair of bum boys!”

“Bum boys, definitely. Homosexual. That’s it. Yeah.”

“Och, never mind, mate. They’ll get naewhere. Scared of the beard, them two.”

“Not for lack of effort.” Tam checked his watch, turning away from his friend. “Where we going to get this bevvy, then?”

“Atlantis?”

Tam frowned. “Shit… Dunno about that. It’s on the main road. Polis station is two doors up. That’s a bit optimistic, mate.”

“Bollocks to it, mate. Nearly the summer holidays. Might as well gie it a go. You look eighteen, man, for definite.”

Tam cleared his throat again, and drifted off for a while into the pinkening skies before replying. “I dunno. My auntie used to work there.”

“Not in the offie’s bit, surely. Come on.”

Back up the main street they went, past the empty bus stops and the taxi ranks. The pubs were crowded, and many drinkers had spilled out into the chairs and tables set up outside - especially at the pub they were heading for: a squat, well-proportioned bar and nightclub complex set in among some trees. “Atlantis”, its sign read; underneath, a demure red-headed mermaid smiled shyly and cupped her breasts with her hands.

A bull-necked man with a shaven head and a “Rangers FC” tattoo curled around his upper arm just below the cuff of his polo neck shrieked at them from one of the outside seats: “Hey, it’s the heavy mob!”

Tam ignored them, counting out the money. “Right. I’m doing this. Fuck it. Exams are done. We’ve only got Tuesdays and Thursdays off from O’Neills when the holidays start. This is the last weekend of the summer.”

“Go to it, my man. A bottle of Buckie. ’92 vintage, if you please.” Stu patted Tam on the shoulder, then retreated to a shady lane running alongside the pub, slabbed with browned pine needles and ragged plastic bags.

The door chimed once as Tam walked into the off-licence, a bunker-style room set into the outside of the building. A simple counter separated the off-licence and the rest of the bar; a small, dapper little man in a pale blue shirt and tie turned at the sound of the bell, and smiled brightly at Tam. “Yes, sir, what can I get you?”

Tam, who had a moderate success rate when it came to getting served, knew the drill: confidence, but not too much; eye contact at all times, but keep it friendly; and always know when to retreat. “Just a bottle of Buckfast, please, and two cans of lager out the fridge.”

“Buckfast out the fridge, as well?”

“Eh… Only if it’s the ’92 vintage.”

The little man beamed. “Ah, that was a wee joke, there! Heh heh! I was just joking with you, son. You don’t put red wine in the fridge.”

I know, Tam was desperate to say. I know, you thick cunt. But Tam smiled broadly, and chuckled. Victory was at hand; the little man already had his hands on the prize. The bottle was placed on the table with a satisfyingly dull thud. The cans were torn from the plastic ring and placed alongside.

“Off anywhere tonight?”

“Yes, we were just going to head off to the ice skating,” Tam said, absent-mindedly.

“Ice skating?” the little man’s eyes narrowed. “No’ a poof, are you?”

“With a bottle of Buckie and two cans?”

The little man laughed. It was such fun! “Ah, a joker after my own heart, eh?”

Tam smiled again, certain that the man would choose these final moments to spring the dreaded ID question. But none came. Tam handed over the money. “Oh, tell you what – you got any mints at all? Don’t want people to know I got a cairry oot on the train, you know?”

“Mints? Now, that’s something I don’t have, son. Funny, I’ve had a few requests for that the night. Maybe yese all think it’s your lucky night wi’ the lassies, eh? That good weather’s having its way with you, eh?”

“Definitely,” Tam said. The outer edges of his eyes and mouth hurt; he was not used to smiling so much.

“I’ve got something, though… a wee glass of pep?”

“Pep?”

“Sure. Peppermint. Hang on, I’ll go and get some.”

Tam blinked, as the little man disappeared through the connecting doorway into the bar beyond. The bell pinged, and Stu stuck his head in.

“Fuck’s going on, man?” he whispered. “You being held for questioning, or something?”

The little man in the blue shirt returned with a dusty green bottle and a shot glass. “Ah – is this yer pal?”

“Eh, aye, mate. How you doing?” Stu stuck out a hand, grinning. The little man took it; his fists were surprisingly large, and engulfed the boy’s.

“Here… I can smell the bevvy off him already, eh?” The little man chuckled. “He’d better try some pep as well. You’ll no’ be nippin’ any wee birdies, with breath like that!”

He poured a measure of the stuff, a clear liquid. Tam sniffed at it, then took a sip. “Minty,” he said, nodding. “That’s really nice.”

He handed the glass back to the little man, who poured a measure for Stu. Stu swallowed it right back. “Nice,” he said. “Any booze in it?”

“Ah, no, lads, just a wee mixer. Right – that’s you for the fresh breath, am I right?”

“Oh, cheers, mate,” Tam said, reaching for the plastic bag. “That’s really good of you. How much for the, eh, pep?”

“Ah, free of charge,” the little man said. “Seeing as it’s your first time in. You come back any time now, right? Don’t be strangers.”

“Oh, totally,” Tam said. “No problem at all. Thanks for that, mate.”

Once outside, carry out by Tam’s side, Stu whooped aloud. “What a brilliant bloke! That was amazing of him, eh?”

“Suppose,” Tam said, trying to contain the flush of victory. “It was good of him.”

“Customer service, man. Davie O’Neill himself would be proud. That’s a guy you can do business with. And he served you nae problem? Didnae ask you for ID?”

“Not at all.”

Stu mock-punched him on the shoulder. “Ah, ya big galoot! You’ve got the moves! Where we going now, then?”

They turned into the lane, and Tam lifted out the bottle of Buckfast. “The golfie?”

It was dark as the two boys climbed the fence at the golf course, the bottle of Buckfast already inside them, although the sun did not entirely sink for long at this time of year. The course was an eerie place after hours, but there was no-one around to disturb them. In the distance, a dog barked as they chased the last of the drink. The lights of Lynnbank, and the city beyond it, glittered at the bottom of the hill.

Tam swayed on the green at the 15th, rubbing his eyes. “See, the thing that gets me… Me n’ Andy… best fuckin’ pals. N’ he goes n’ does that. Burst yer arse, man.”

Stu, who was stuck fast in a bunker, retched, dry-heaved, then settled back into heavy-lidded equilibrium. “Andy’s an arsehole, mate. Always said it. You reckon he’s nipping that Sarah McKinley?”

“Better no’ be,” Tam said darkly. He swigged at the bottle of Buckfast, but only the thin scrapings were left. The tickle of solids in his mouth disgusted him and he spat them out.

“Wonder why he told us he was studyin’?”

“I tell you, I need to get studyin’, man. This year, nae fucking about. You can mess up yer Standard Grades, but no’ yer Highers. I need to get a grip here, man. Need to go to uni. You hear what I’m saying? Eh?”

He turned around, but Stu was gone; a faint bell curve in the parched sand the only indication that he had ever been there. “Stu?” Tam called.

“I told you, my father isn’t in,” Tam said. He was wired now, adrenaline having burned off a great deal of the intoxication. He spoke in a quivering alto, a far cry from the basso braggadocio he had favoured in the off-licence. His front door, heavy, dark green and stolid, was the only thing that didn’t appear to shake in the strobe effect of the close’s faulty stairhead light.

“Oh, don’t worry, son,” the policeman said, leaning his face into Tam’s. Well into his forties, he was roughly the same height as Tam, but far thicker and stronger, and he clearly relished the fact that the boy recoiled. “We’ll be back here tomorrow morning for a wee chat with your father. Disturbing the peace? Vandalising the golf course?”

“I have the right to remain silent,” Tam said. The policewoman who was with the male officer smirked at him.

“You could have exercised that right back in the car,” she said. “Saved us listening to your gibbering.”

“Hey – are you going to uni?” the policeman asked, mock-serious.

“I don’t know,” the policewoman said, “do you reckon he’s going to uni? Tell us again, Thomas. Are you going to uni?”

Tam decided he liked the policewoman less than the man as he fumbled with the keys. However, timing was of the essence here. If he wasn’t quick, Mrs Toner would be –

“What’s going on?” Mrs Toner asked, from the landing above, her face scrunched up, her wrinkles given grisly animation in the wavering light, like a cracked-open coffin.

“Nothing, Mrs Toner.” Tam finally slid the key into the lock.

“There better not be any trouble,” Mrs Toner said, voice rising to a terrible level. “I’ll tell your father! I’m sick of trouble on this street! You young yins think ye can do what ye want!”

Tam went inside and closed the door. He slid down the length of it to his haunches, hair bunched in his hands. The bass voices of the police syncopated with the shrill cry of Mrs Toner, echoing through the close, the whole building. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked under Mr Browning’s feet. Christ, the whole close must have heard it. At least the old man wasn’t awake; that was something.

Tam crept into the livingroom, where a single table lamp burned. As usual his father was unconscious, though in a more abject position than he’d been in for a while. The man’s great jowled head was tipped back, breath rattling in his throat in a sort of strangulated snore. On the cigarette-burned coffee table in front of him was a can of lager and a glass misted over with the last dregs of a whisky. Half a fish supper, still in the wrapper, glistened in the lamplight on the floor. His father’s overalls were pulled down and bunched into the top of his workboots. A pair of burgundy Y-fronts were just about visible among his concertinaed blubber, bellybutton sunk in the fat. Tam pinched a handful of chips; still warm. He crept out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

He did not turn on his own room lights, preferring, as always, to stare out of the window at the flickering streetlamps as he got undressed. Tam could see for miles from his room, as far as the river about three or four miles away, running in parallel with the canal. A red light pulsed along this invisible line in the dark. It was a ship, heading out to sea, bound for some city a long way from here.